


Alternatives

by Anonymous



Series: Alternatives [1]
Category: Brooklyn Nine-Nine (TV)
Genre: 5 Things, 5 Times, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Angst, Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-26
Updated: 2020-04-06
Packaged: 2021-03-01 00:47:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 12,683
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23326486
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: Five ways Raymond Holt did not meet Kevin Cozner.
Relationships: Kevin Cozner/Ray Holt
Series: Alternatives [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1783654
Comments: 18
Kudos: 109
Collections: Anonymous





	1. Chapter 1

Raymond Holt was embarrassingly giddy. Giddy like a boy on his first day of school. To be entering Brooklyn’s 99th precinct as the new captain was a life’s dream come true. He all but sauntered into the elevator, a spring in his step, pushed the button with gusto, very nearly _smiled_ – in the workplace! – when it dinged and the doors slid open to reveal… a group of detectives and uniformed officers not working but instead observing the antics of a young man doing some kind of robot impression. Correction, not a robot impression but an impression of the new boss. An impression of him.

*

While giving his brief and to the point speech, Raymond let his gaze traverse the faces of his new squad. For a fraction of a second, it rested on the tall, impeccably dressed detective, whom he had noticed hiding a smirk behind his coffee mug during his quick and efficient tear-down of the class clown. 

*

“Detective Cozner,” Jeffords said later in Raymond’s new office, “Very quiet. Peralta sometimes gets him out of his shell though, which is not always a good thing but also, weirdly, not always bad either. He might be the most intelligent detective we have, but he is a huge underachiever, never even took the sergeant’s exam. Says he doesn’t do well on written tests which is a straight up lie. In the years I’ve worked with him I’ve never even found one typo in one of his reports – not even a punctuation error!” Jeffords’s voice had risen to a volume somewhat disproportional to the topic. Although, Raymond had to admit, he was prone to yelling about punctuation himself.

Jeffords sighed, wiping a hand across his face. “Sorry, this may have come up in my therapy sessions once or twice. Anyway, I like to say that he’s the personification of the color tan. You don’t really notice him; he’s just kind of there.”

 _The personification of the color tan?_ Raymond thought as he peeked through the blinds at the man in question. Cozner was sitting at his desk, typing away diligently, unaware that Raymond Holt had in fact just noticed him.


	2. Chapter 2

Peralta’s mood could only be described as disruptively joyous. Here he was, bounding across the bullpen, his nervous energy distracting everyone around him from their tasks.

“What is going on?” Holt asked, striding out of his office. What was more, Peralta was actually _early._ This was unheard of and _deeply_ disturbing.

Gina, who had been swaying to a tune only she could hear, not at all in time to Peralta’s odd hopping and arm-waving, swiveled in her chair to face him.

“Uncle Kev’s coming to town!” she sing-songed. “We’re celebrating!”

He knew he would regret asking for clarification, he always did, and yet he could not resist.

“Who,” he asked, pausing a moment to let the weight of his distaste fall on the appalling moniker, “is ʻUncle Kevʼ?”

“Our uncle!” Jake exclaimed.

“But you and Gina aren’t related, right?” Santiago asked.

“Are you?!” Boyle yelled before clapping his hands over his mouth. He looked about to swoon. “Because if you are and she’s my sister, that would make us related, Jake! And that would be—”

“No, no, no, no, no, Charles! First of all, STEP, okay? _Step_ sister. We share no genes!”

“We did share a pair of jeans once.”

“Oh my God, Boyle, shut _up_!”

“He’s not actually related to either of us,” Jake interrupted, “He is just a really sweet guy who used to live in the apartment next to my nana’s and who babysat us a lot.”

“He took me to my first ballet when I was little, which ignited the fire of dance in my soul. So this,” Gina declared as she swayed in her office chair, “is all thanks to him.”

“Yeah, and he always tried to get me to read books, which I never did, so…” Peralta grinned, tucking his bottom lip under his teeth.

“And he kept in touch all these years? Damn, that’s dedication,” Jeffords said.

“Well, he loves me _a lot_ and he tolerates Jake. He says you’ve kind of grown on him like a fungus and it helps that he’s been living in Paris for the last couple of decades, which meant that you couldn’t barge in on him all the time anymore.”

“I was heartbroken when he moved to Paris. He’d been getting on so well with my mom. He helped her a lot after my dad left. I actually kind of hoped they would get married and he’d be my new dad.”

Gina snorted in a way that made Raymond think she had some crucial piece of information Jake was missing. “Oh, boo, they would never have gotten married.”

“What? Why? Sure, my mom’s older than him, but she’s still attractive. She’s a total MILF.”

Even Boyle looked disgusted at that. Out of nowhere, Hitchcock appeared at Terry’s elbow, an eager look on his face. “Did someone say MILF?”

Jake grimaced. “I realize now I should not have said that ever.”

“No, you really shouldn’t,” groaned Santiago.

“Anyway,” Gina said, “the man who helped shape me, Gina Linetti, into the woman I am today, is coming back to New York City for good, it seems. Because they’ve made him head of Columbia University’s classics department.”

This had Raymond’s full attention now. “You are telling me, a man allowing himself to be referred to as ʻUncle Kevʼ is going to head the classics department of one of this country’s finest universities, a man who apparently played some role in educating,” he gestured vaguely at Peralta, “this?”

“Hey!” came Peralta’s weak protest.

Santiago giggled derisively.

“All due respect, sir, but did you not hear what I just said? He helped shape _me._ Don’t you think that Michelangelo had some ugly, half-assed lumps of rock that he hammered around on between Davids?”

Raymond inclined his head, finding himself quite unable to argue this point.

“And also, when you meet him, you are going to _so_ regret dissing Uncle Kev. Because, again, no disrespect, but he could eat you for breakfast.”

“Oh, could he now,” Raymond said, unimpressed. However, there was a small part of him that did not like the way Gina and Peralta spoke about this man who was clearly a father figure to both of them. It was almost as though, out of nowhere, he suddenly had competition. _Nonsense,_ Raymond chastised himself. “Get back to work,” he ordered. With that he turned on his heel and retreated into his office.

*

Two days later, Raymond walked into the precinct just as the elevator doors were about to close. He sped up his pace slightly but as he was loath to break into an undignified run, he resigned himself to having to wait for its return.

It did not come to that. A hand emerged from inside and held the door for him. Grateful, Raymond nodded at the other occupant as he stepped onto the elevator. 

“Thank you,” he said to the man, who was a little taller than him, slender, dressed in a grey coat and sensible slacks. Raymond was sure he had never seen him before. A visitor badge was pinned to his lapel.

“You’re welcome,” the stranger replied, his voice kind and cultured and _quite_ lovely, Raymond could not help but think.

They stood side by side as was proper elevator etiquette, both of them gazing at the doors.

At least until Raymond could no longer resist temptation and glanced at the man next to him. Apparently, the other man had felt the same impulse because their eyes met the very moment the contraption around them did its usual small drop – a fraction of a second of feeling weightless – before it started moving up.

“I’m sorry if this is inappropriate,” the man said, his eyes, Raymond noticed, were very blue, “but you are Captain Holt, aren’t you?”

“Indeed, I am.”

“Your reputation certainly precedes you.” The stranger’s lips quirked into a perfect one-second smile.

_Oh_ , Raymond thought, finally putting the pieces together. Had he taken the time to imagine what the man that had Gina and Jake so excited might be like, he would never have come up with anyone this charming. As it was, he had not wasted any thoughts on their conversation at all. Either way, he was surprised.

“Am I correct in assuming you are the famous ʻUncle Kevʼ?” he ventured, hating that he had to use the childish moniker as he had not learned the man’s real name.

The other man sighed in exasperation.

“Yes, they would call me that, wouldn’t they, in spite of the decades I spent trying to dissuade them from it.” He extended his hand gracefully and added, “My name is Kevin Cozner.”

“Raymond Holt,” Raymond said, grasping the hand for a professional shake.

Up, down, separation, just as the doors slid open.

Cozner nodded his goodbye and stepped into the bullpen, where he was instantly greeted by Peralta hollering, “Uncle Kev!”

Raymond hung back, watching the scene unfold. For all his initial buffoonery, Peralta seemed to calm down in Cozner’s presence. After less than twenty seconds, Jake was standing up straighter, an earnest smile on his face as Cozner put a hand on his shoulder while they talked. Gina sauntered over to them, shooting Raymond a sly, oddly knowing smile before giving Cozner a hug.

Somewhat belatedly Raymond realized that he was smiling as well.


	3. Chapter 3

Greg Stickney had not quite settled into his new home yet. He had arrived the previous day in a moving truck, accompanied by two FBI agents, unpacked his few belongings, greeted a couple of curious neighbors – among them Larry Sherbert, who had only just arrived himself, and then, with nothing else to do, sat down with a book.

Today, he would peruse the local paper, perhaps even scout the neighborhood for job offerings.

Raymond Holt was feeling strangely neutral about the prospect of spending an indefinite period of time in witness protection. He missed his routine, that was true, his uniform and the precinct, but his private life had been uneventful for quite some time now, and not just since the breakup with his last partner four months before. A certain sense of tedium had begun to permeate what even a year ago, Raymond might have described as pleasant monotony.

When Harold’s mother had suffered a fall in her house in Kyoto and needed care, they had sat down for a discussion of their future together, and had arrived at the mutual conclusion that, after nine satisfying years together, they did not have one. Their breakup had been amicable, it had been sealed with a handshake and the, Raymond had to admit, somewhat half-hearted promise to stay in touch. All in all, the breakup had affected Peralta more than him, despite the fact that Jake had only ever met Harold once, briefly, as Harold had refused to ever speak to Jake again after their disastrous first encounter at Raymond’s birthday party.

If there was one thing he missed about his former partner – they had never married despite the option becoming available to them during their relationship; the timing never seemed right – it was the sound of Harold playing the cello in his study for practice floating through the entire house. Harold looked like a different man when he played, his head inclined towards the instrument’s neck, eyes fluttering closed as his bow caressed the strings.

“So, what you’re saying is, Ray, is he’s passionate when he’s stroking his instrument, but not when he’s stroking _your_ instrument,” Debbie had said to him on the phone once, causing him to hang up without a word.

Crudeness aside, Raymond had to admit that there was some truth to it. His relationships generally lacked passion and he liked it that way. The one passionate relationship he’d had ended with him throwing a wooden duck off a bridge. But yes, Frederick had been… something in the bedroom.

These, however, were not Greg Stickney’s concerns because he was a heterosexual man. He cared about breasts and thigh gaps.

*

Over the next few days, Raymond befriended a group of elderly women from the neighborhood, joining them daily for their powerwalking and, just as important, gossiping.

“I heard another man is going to move into the house next to yours soon,” Estelle told him on day six.

“Are you talking about Larry Sherbert? He has already moved in. I spoke to him about his lawn the other day.”

“No, no, I’m talking about the other house. The old lady who lived there died a few months ago. She left it to her nephew.”

“Oh?”.”

“According to my friend Vivian, he’s a writer, who is going to move here from New York.”

“New York City?” Raymond asked, slightly alarmed. Considering the size of the city, the odds that this man might know him were extremely low, and yet, the odds that his new next-door neighbor in Florida would turn out to be from New York of all places should have been rather small as well. Could he be working for Figgis?

“Yes,” Estelle said, unaware of his concern, “the Big Apple. Have you ever been there?”

“A few times, mostly on business. I don’t like it. It’s too crowded, noisy, smelly,” Raymond lowered his voice for dramatic effect, “and I think the crime rate is through the roof.”

“Ah, but Times Square at night!”

He scoffed. “Downright offensive to my eyes.”

“Oh,” she said, somewhat discouraged. “Anyway, I think we’ll get to meet him soon enough. They already brought some of his things even before you had moved in. A writer, I’m so excited!”

“Hm,” Raymond replied, contemplating which steps to take next.

*

Protocol for a situation like this was to call the emergency number given to them by their handler, Marshal Haas, to relay the information they had and then to wait for an update from the Department of Justice who would do a thorough background check on the individual in question.

Raymond followed protocol. He informed the Marshal.

Then, he considered his other neighbor.

He had seen little of Larry Sherbert over the past few days, only caught glimpses of him taking out the garbage, hair greasy, shoulders slumped as he dragged himself across the lawn.

If there was a potential threat, Peralta should know, Raymond thought.

*

“Hello, Mister… Sherbert?” Raymond said as soon as Peralta had opened the door. He tried not to recoil at the sight of Jake, who clearly had not showered in a while, and was blinking at him, blinded by the sunlight, his eyes swollen and red-rimmed.

“Gref?” Jake mumbled. The thickness of his voice, his mussed hair and rumpled attire indicated that he had just gotten out of bed.

“It’s Greg. Stickney. Your neighbor. Do you have a moment? I have some questions regarding garbage disposal.”

“Sure, come in.”

*

The house was a complete mess. An open pizza box sat on the sofa, next to a crumpled t-shirt and an empty can of soda.

Raymond tried not to wrinkle his nose and failed.

“Sorry,” Jake said, dragging a hand across his face. “It’s been…” He let the sentence trail off as there was no need to state the obvious. Jake missed Santiago and the squad.

“No need to apologize. However, there is something I need to discuss with you.”

*

“We have to break into his house,” Jake said after Raymond had explained the situation.

“What?”

“He might be working for Figgis! Come on, what are the odds that someone from NYC just happens to move in less than a week after we got here?”

“As there are 8.623 million people living in the city of New York, the chances are actually higher than you might think. Do you want me to do the math for you?”

“No!” Jake groaned. “Do not do the math! For future reference, I never want you to do the math, Captain!”

“Lower your voice and don’t call me that.” Raymond fixed Peralta with a pointed glare. “And – I cannot stress this enough – do not break into his house. As I have told you, I have taken the appropriate steps. We will wait for an update from Marshal Haas. That will be all.”

*

That night, having known Peralta too long to trust his sullen, reluctant acquiescence, Raymond lurked by his window, keeping watch. 

At 0234, Raymond spotted a shadow creeping across the neighboring lawn. 

By the time he had snuck outside, he found the front door still securely locked, but discovered a window at the back of the house had been shimmied open.

Raymond hesitated, wondering if Peralta might be carrying a gun. After all, as he had learned within hours of his arrival in the state, there were no stores in Florida that did not sell them. Even the drive-through vape store, Raymond shuddered at the memory – had a sign out front advertising a ʻbuy one shotgun, get an additional a sawed off one for half priceʼ deal.

It was not wise to sneak up on an armed individual, even if he was a trained police officer.

It seemed, however, as though Peralta was leaving him not much of a choice. Peeking through the open window, Raymond could see a cone of light moving in the dark. Jake had apparently left the room he had first entered and was advancing deeper into the house. 

Stifling a curse as he hoisted himself up with some effort, Raymond climbed in as well, in pursuit of his errant detective.

“Peralta,” he whispered as he went, feeling around in the darkness, hoping his fingertips would find obstacles before his toes did. “Jake!”

In the hallway, the cone of light wavered, then, when Raymond stepped through the doorway, it swung around, blinding him.

“Captain!”

Raymond had thrown up one arm to shield his eyes. He squinted at Peralta whose outraged expression, lit from below, looked ghostly and twisted.

“What do you think you’re doing?” Raymond snapped.

“Policework,” Jake had the gall to shoot back. “I’m going to find out who this guy is and if he is working for Figgis, which he _is_ , I’m going to find something that’s going to lead us to _him_ , so we can go back home!”

“You are committing burglary, a first-degree felony! If someone were to see you and call the police, you would be arrested!”

“Yeah well, you’re here too, so.” Shrugging, Peralta turned and walked further down the hallway.

“To put a stop to this!” Raymond hurried after him, not sure what to do next. If he were to try to physically restrain Jake, a fight would ensue, which might alert the rest of the neighborhood.

He grit his teeth, slowing down as Jake ran up the stairs at the end of the corridor. Without a flashlight of his own, Raymond had to be careful not to trip, not to cause any kind of commotion. By the time he reached the second floor, Jake was no longer in view, but the first door on his right was ajar, a faint glow emanating from the crack.

Raymond pushed inside and found Jake already rummaging through one of the large cardboard boxes stacked next to the bed.

“Bingpot,” Jake whispered.

Intrigued despite himself, Raymond crept closer.

The bedroom was small and stripped of any personal items – most of the late owner’s belongings had already been removed weeks ago, Estelle had told him, the nephew had been there then, briefly, but she hadn’t caught a glimpse of him. This, in Raymond’s opinion, was clear evidence that the man in question had nothing to do with Figgis, since he had planned to come to Florida some time before their placement in witsec. Peralta, however, had been unwilling to listen to reason.

Now he was pulling items out of the box to examine them in the light. Jake held up a grey bow tie and muttered, “Bow ties? Who is this guy? Pee-wee Herman?”

Crouching down as well, Raymond put a hand on his shoulder. “Stop.”

“No,” Jake said without looking at him. “There has to be something here.” He shook off Raymond’s hand and moved on to the next box.

“ _Jacob_.”

“No. I am not staying here for who knows how long. It’s only been a week and I miss Amy like crazy. And Charles and Gina, Terry and Rosa.” There was a tremor in his voice. “Even Scully and Hitchcock.”

“I understand that,” Raymond said gently.

“No, you don’t,” Jake snapped. “You don’t miss anyone. You don’t have anyone to miss. Even the guy you lived with for almost a decade, you just dumped him without batting an eye.”

“That is _not_ what happened.”

Something squeaked loudly, causing them both to flinch. Angrily, Jake pulled the thing out of the box, held it up in the light - a small dog toy shaped like an owl, adorned with glasses and a bow tie, quite adorable - then tossed the offending item on the bed.

Raymond drew in a breath, hating the way he had tensed up during Jake’s rant, a knot of shame and defensiveness forming in his gut.

For some reason, Jake’s hands had stilled, he was holding the flashlight, shining his light into the box. Raymond leaned over to see what Jake was looking at.

On top of what looked like a stack of books lay a framed picture. Two white men, both dressed in suits, one dark, one a light grey. They were smiling, holding hands, their heads inclined, lightly, towards one another. Raymond recognized the background as New York City Hall, where he and Harold would have gotten married that day, had they both not decided against it because it seemed rash, the timing inconvenient. Looking at the picture made him feel a strange mix of emotions: wistfulness, kinship… faint envy.

“This man is not working for Figgis,” Raymond said.

“Why? Because he’s gay?” Jake tore his gaze off the photograph to glare at him. “Gay people can be criminals too. They can be anything they want to be. Don’t be a bigot, sir!”

“Enough!” Raymond got to his feet and grabbed his errant detective by the scruff of his neck, dragging him up as well. “We are leaving.”

“That could have been you, if you weren’t such a robot,” Jake spat, gesturing to the photo. “You don’t care about anyone,” he added bitterly.

_I care about you,_ Raymond almost replied. Perhaps that had been one of the things that had made it easy to end his relationship with Harold, how much he had despised the squad, how he had refused any interaction with them.

Raymond shook his head. He opened his mouth to tell Peralta to stay out of his personal affairs when they both heard it, a car pulling into the driveway.

Shocked, Raymond released Peralta who spun around and dashed to the window.

“Oh no! It’s him,” Jake gasped, “He _is_ a crook! Why else would he be sneaking around at this hour? Also, you couldn’t see it in the photo but he’s really going bald. What do we do?”

There was no back entrance. In order to get to the first floor, they would have to take the stairs, in full view of the front door. Which they could hear opening that very moment.

Jake moved first, darting out of the bedroom with, Raymond was certain, no plan at all. He followed regardless.

“Switch off the flashlight,” Raymond hissed as he slipped through the door into the hallway.

The lights had been switched on downstairs; their faint glow was illuminating the top of the staircase.

While Peralta was tip-toeing toward another door, Raymond listened for any sounds indicating the location of the owner. He could hear footsteps… and a faint jingling. 

Jake, who had been cautiously turning the door handle, froze. Raymond knew they were both thinking of the same thing. The dog toy.

The very moment the horrible realization struck, the dog started barking and, from the sound of it, running up the stairs.

“Cheddar!” A man’s voice rang out. “What has gotten into you?”

Raymond and Jake all but burst through the door, pulling it shut behind them. Jake switched on his flashlight and Raymond felt what little hope he had evaporate.

“This is a bathroom,” he whispered, “we cannot hide in here.”

It didn’t matter much, as the dog had audibly arrived in front of the door. He paused his barking to sniff under it.

“The window,” Jake whispered back, desperately, as he made his way past bathtub and toilet to try and get it open.

“Cheddar, tais-toi! You’re giving me a headache.”

The man was at the top of the stairs. They could hear his footsteps approaching.

Cheddar had ceased his barking and was now growling.

Raymond, completely out of options, joined Peralta by the window, only to find that the latch was rusty and stuck.

“Cheddar, if this is another bat, you may _not_ chase it,” the man muttered as the door handle turned.

Jake and Raymond briefly locked eyes, wordlessly agreeing that, yes, their goose was cooked.

The door opened; the light was switched on.

Raymond found himself staring into the wide blue eyes of the shocked stranger.

“Occupied?” Peralta said.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In my head there is a lot more to this, but I don't know if it will ever see the light of day.


	4. Chapter 4

Captain Raymond Holt was sitting in his office, a file open on the desk in front of him, another stack of them towering by his left elbow. It was everything the NYPD had on Seamus Murphy and members of his family, countless cases, of which most, for lack of evidence, had not even made it to trial.

To his right, he had another document open on his laptop, displaying the arrest to conviction ratio for every known and potential member of Murphy’s crew. It was dismal.

The few who were convicted did their time, lips sealed.

Raymond glanced over at his phone, wondering if he should give their contact in the organized crime unit another call. But to what end? In the vain hope a miracle might have occurred in the twenty-seven hours since they had last talked? Lieutenant Kristoff had told him in no uncertain terms that, yes, they were trying to build a case against Murphy, had been for years, but there was little evidence and no witnesses.

No one was willing to testify against the mob boss anymore after the federal agencies had failed to protect the lives of two would-be witnesses. “Also, it seems like everyone in this city owes Murphy a favor,” the Lieutenant had said, and Raymond had swallowed and said his goodbyes, dread spreading like poison inside him.

He’d spent all night looking not for a loophole but for a main hole, a straightforward way to bring Seamus Murphy down, yet he had nothing to show for his efforts.

Raymond glanced at his watch, confirming that the day shift was about to begin. Just outside his door uniformed officers and detectives were bustling about, the night shift staff finishing up and leaving, mingling with the first early arrivals from the day shift, Jeffords probably among them.

Raymond closed his eyes and leaned back in his chair, allowing the bone-deep exhaustion to take over for a moment. He soaked in the familiar soundscape, on some days as elating to him as Haydn’s Freudenlied. How many mornings like this were left to him now? He had not quite done as Murphy asked, with the aid of his squad he had foiled the plan the criminal had cooked up, and Murphy would not release his recording, incriminating Raymond, ending his career.

Raymond Holt had worked very hard to arrive to where he was now, captain of his precinct, in the running for commissioner of the NYPD. His entire life had been dedicated to this; he had always put it first, nothing else came even close, not his family, not his own health, certainly not his love life.

Was this what it had all boiled down to, that moment in the diner two days before, when Murphy had ambushed him once more, to promise him that he would soon pay a visit to the honorable judge Laverne Holt? _“I gotta say, it is kinda sad, getting to your age and still the only one who loves you is your mother.”_

She was a in safe house now, with Santiago, who had begged him to have the first turn guarding her despite Peralta’s and Diaz’ protests. While he was sure his mother was in no danger for the time being, Raymond was sick and tired of the weight his deal with Murphy had put on him. He wanted to end this. He wanted to find the fissure in Murphy’s slimy shell of intimidation and corruption and put him behind bars, once and for all.

He hated that Murphy could still strut around, a free man, after everything he had done.

There was a knock on his door, two raps, then it was pulled open and Peralta stuck his head in.

“Sir, do you have a sec?”

“I must have more time than you if you find it necessary to abbreviate a two-syllable word, Detective.”

“Okay, you’re obviously in a _great_ mood. How about I just come back later.”

When Peralta withdrew, Raymond sighed. “No, come in now. I apologize. As you can see, I am a complete mess.”

Having stepped inside and closed the door behind him, Peralta gave him a blank look. “Uh,” he said, “You look fine to me.”

“I’m wearing the same clothes I wore yesterday,” Raymond pointed out. How this had escaped his detective was beyond him. Honestly, he looked like a homeless person who had wandered into the precinct.

Peralta frowned. “You literally wear the same uniform every day, sir. No one can tell any difference.”

“I change my uniform daily.” Raymond shook his head. Elaborating on this was useless. “What did you want? Is anything the matter with my mother?”

“Nope, everything’s good on that front. Ames is keeping her distracted.”

Raymond raised both eyebrows. “I trust there have been no _jam on_ incidents?”

“No, sir, no jammin’. Seriously, ever since that happened, Amy hasn’t been able to sit through a Bob Marley song without breaking into a sweat and tearing up. I’m kind of hoping this will cure her and we can finally have a reggae night.”

 _Ah,_ _complete nonsense,_ Raymond thought almost fondly. “Then what is it?”

“I’ve been thinking,” Jake began hesitantly – not a good sign, usually Peralta would surge forward even with the most ridiculous idea, “No,” he corrected himself, “actually, I’ve already done something.”

Raymond tensed.

“I made a phone call to an old friend,” Peralta continued. With a heavy sigh, he stopped his nervous fidgeting and dropped into the chair in front of Raymond’s desk. “In prison. I called Caleb.”

“The cannibal?” Raymond asked, though the question was rhetorical, of course, as Jacob had made no other connections during his incarceration. “Who preyed on children?”

“He sees himself more as a woodworker these days,” Peralta said, grimacing.

Raymond could not even dignify that with a response.

“Okay, yeah, he’s done horrifying things. But…” Peralta paused and shot a glance at the door, lowering his voice as he continued, “… there was this other guy in prison. I never talked to him because he didn’t like Caleb and he also _really_ hated cops. Anyway, rumor was he was innocent. That some powerful mob boss had framed him for murder. I called Caleb and it turns out that mob boss was Seamus Murphy.”

“Peralta, surely you know that everyone in prison says they’re innocent. It does not mean anything.”

“No, sir, you don’t get it. It wasn’t just he who said it, everyone else said it about him too. It was like everyone knew this guy had been framed and just shrugged it off as bad luck.”

“This is still nothing but hearsay and if you truly had been convinced of this injustice, why didn’t you try to do anything about it sooner?”

Jake looked pained. He averted his eyes. “I… I didn’t want to think about prison. It was bad enough that Rosa and me were falsely convicted, if there was someone else… If the system is that broken, then how can I be a cop?”

Raymond softened. Over the years, he had learned many a lesson on the flaws in the system. They were the very reason he had vowed to rise to the top, so he could change what desperately needed changing.

“And yet here you are now.”

Biting his lip, Jake looked up at him. “Murphy is coming after you because of what you did for us. I’m not letting that happen.”

“Correction: he is coming after me because of what _I_ refused to do for him.”

“Doesn’t matter. He’s threatening you; that means he’s threatening all of us. We’re going to stop him.”

He could not deny that it warmed him to his core to hear these words, to see Peralta’s eyes shining with sincerity. He nodded. “Alright, I will look into his case.”

*

Five years ago, Professor Kevin Cozner had been found guilty of murder in the first degree. He had been sentenced to twenty-five years in prison without parole.

Raymond was reading the file on his laptop. He spent a few seconds studying Cozner’s mugshot. The professor was a six feet tall white male with blue eyes and light brown hair with a touch of ginger. In the picture, his expression was detached, his eyes hard and lifeless, lips pressed into a pale line.

Over the course of his career, Raymond had seen countless mugshots – none of them ever flattering – and in general he felt he could glean a certain sense of the depicted person’s level of guilt from the way they looked into the camera. Not in this case, however, as Cozner looked like a corpse. There was nothing in his face, in his eyes, not even the tiniest spark of emotion.

Raymond moved on from the mugshot and general information and started reading the reports.

The victim had been one of Cozner’s students, twenty-year old Alexander Mortimer, who had been found strangled in his off-campus apartment. Raymond scrolled past a photo of the young man – alive – blue-eyed, with wavy blond hair, high cheekbones and fine, somewhat androgynous features, accented by wire-rimmed glasses. The next photo was one of his body, sprawled on a futon bed, flannel shirt gaping open, exposing a hairless, pale chest. Denim trousers also unbuttoned and unzipped, though still up. His eyes were staring at the ceiling, glasses gone, lips slightly parted. The pattern of dark bruising on his slender neck suggested that the murderer had strangled him with his bare hands.

There were several pictures of the crime scene, from different angles, as well as close-ups of the bruising on the neck, of the victim’s clean fingernails, of further bruising on his arms and chest. Raymond frowned at the report. There had been a fight, but the other residents in the building claimed to have heard nothing. The body had been discovered by the victim’s older sister, who had a key to the apartment and was supposed to meet Alexander for breakfast before class. The coroner put the time of death at roughly 0300. There were no signs of forced entry, which meant Alexander had either opened the door for his murderer or the murderer had used a key. Apart from Mortimer’s own, there were two more of those, the spare key he had given to his sister and another one the landlord had.

Cozner’s conviction had hinged on three things: a colleague of his had testified to have accidentally walked in on a tryst between Cozner and Mortimer in Cozner’s office and retreated before the two had noticed, cotton gloves covered in Cozner’s and Mortimer’s DNA had been found in a trash can on campus and a handwritten letter by Mortimer addressed to Cozner, informing the professor of the student’s wish to make the affair public, had been discovered at the crime scene.

Raymond sighed. The district attorney had pursued this angle: Cozner, openly gay himself and married to a dentist, had carried on a secret affair with his much younger student and then when the student had issued an ultimatum, Cozner had murdered him in cold blood. He had come to Mortimer’s apartment in the middle of the night, feigning a desire to discuss the future of their relationship. Mortimer, his lover, had let him in. Cozner had brought the gloves he normally used to handle the precious and fragile artifacts belonging to the classics department. He had put them on and strangled the young man on the bed. He had then cleaned the apartment and disposed of his gloves.

As there had been no other suspects, it had been easy to convince the jury of this theory.

Raymond leaned back in his chair, contemplating the evidence.

He looked down at his desk. Next to his laptop lay a single sheet of paper. Peralta had typed up the tale that circulated within the prison walls and penciled some notes in the margins. He skimmed it, wincing at Peralta’s handwritten annotations.

According to several sources – _like e.g. Fat Mike, Fatter Mike, no relation, Skinny Rick – not a lot of body positivity in prison, let me tell you –_ the victim – _guys in prison usually just call him that dumb kid ‘cause, you know, that kid real dumb_ – Alexander Mortimer had been working as a drug dealer for Murphy on campus for several months before his death. He started out moving small amounts, but his business grew quickly – _college students really like drugs, who’d’ve thought._ Because he was incredibly smart about selling while not drawing any attention to himself – _if only he’d been half as smart about not pissing off mob bosses_ – Murphy started trusting him with more high-end product. Normally he never included anyone outside his family in business like this, but he made an exception for Mortimer. It seems like he had high hopes for him – _Mortimer was kind of the Bart to Murphy’s Fat Tony, if you get my drift. Wait, who am I kidding? You won’t._ But then Mortimer decided to bypass Murphy. He knew the suppliers, he thought if he paid them a little more than Murphy did and charged his customers a little less, he would still make more money because he would not have to give Murphy his cut _– which was huge, mob bosses are not known for their restraint._ Murphy visited Alexander on campus to give him a warning, but he didn’t listen. _Fun fact, rumor has it, Murphy ran into Cozner there and Cozner scoffed at him or something. This might be a myth, though._ He came up with the plan to frame the professor, then killed Mortimer himself and had his crew deal with the cleanup. _Which means, that witness, Dr. Mitchell Weigand, Ph.D., who said he’d seen Cozner and Mortimer smushing booty was totes lying._

Perhaps. Or perhaps this entire yarn, spun by criminals and crooks with a lot of time in their hands, was false. But then, what reason would they have to make this up?

Raymond opened an attachment to the file on his laptop, the audio recording of Cozner’s interrogation.

He skipped past the stating of time, date, case number and names.

“Can you tell me again where you were that night, Professor Cozner?” a man asked. Raymond had checked the names of the detectives who’d worked the case. He didn’t know them and they’d both retired by now, which might help the professor’s case.

“As I said,” Cozner began, his voice calm, cultured and Raymond noted reluctantly, quite pleasing to his ears, “I was at home in my bed. By ten p.m. I was sound asleep, and I didn’t wake up until six a.m. the next morning.”

“Hm. Was there anyone with you?”

“No. Except for my dog.”

*

“He’s not going to talk to me, though I kind of would have liked to go down there, to see Caleb, but then I also never ever want to set foot in that place again, so…”

“I will go and speak to Cozner,” Raymond said, hoping to end Peralta’s emotional torment. “Perhaps, we might be able to find some common ground. We are not that dissimilar after all.” He tried for optimism, but Jake only gave him a quizzical look.

“Because you also were wrongly convicted of murder and spent five years of your life in a supermax prison?”

Raymond cast his gaze beseechingly to the heavens. “No, because we are of similar age, we are both homosexual and I am quite interested in the classics.” Saying it aloud, however, did make it sound like, well, not much of anything. “He will want to talk to me when he hears what we are trying to do,” he said firmly. “In the meantime, you need to find Dr. Weigand.”

“On it.”

*

Three days later, Raymond was in a rental car, driving from Columbia Metropolitan Airport to Jericho supermax prison.

*

_“I did not have any relations with Mr. Mortimer. He was my student, nothing more.”_

_“Then why do we have a witness claiming he saw you two together in your office, in flagranti, as they say?”_

_“I wish to God I knew.”_

_“And why would Mortimer write this letter, hm? It’s his handwriting. His prints are on it.”_

_“I don’t know. I have never seen this letter before. I have never touched it.”_

_“Not with your bare hands, you haven’t. But we found these gloves. They’re yours, aren’t they?”_

_“Yes. I keep them in a drawer in my office. Someone must have taken them. I am not the only person with access to my office. The department secretary has a key, so does the janitorial staff.”_

_“When was the last time you used them then?”_

_“Two days ago. I retrieved a set of antique coins from the archives to show them in class. I put the gloves back into the top drawer of my desk afterwards. I haven’t touched them since.”_

_“How about we go over the events of that night one more time, Professor?”_

_“Again? I have told you everything four times already. There is nothing new.”_

_“Just humor me, hm. And then, when you’re done, I’ll tell you my version and we can decide which one we like better.”_

*

Raymond had listened to the recording of Cozner’s interrogation twice, trying to assess whether he was telling the truth. A difficult task as he found himself frequently clenching his jaw at the detectives’ insinuations regarding Cozner’s sexuality.

_“So where is this ʻhusbandʼ of yours then?”_

_“He is currently at a congress in Switzerland.”_

_“Does he leave the country on business often?”_

_“He has been travelling frequently this year, yes.”_

_“And you’re not getting lonely? Getting bored?”_

_“I have my own career.”_

_“Just out of curiosity, how much do you stand to lose if he were to divorce you? He makes almost twice your salary, doesn’t he? If you were a regular couple, you’d be the one staying home with the kids.”_

_“Define regular couple.”_

_“A man and a woman.”_

_“Ah. Well, by your definition we are not a regular couple. Also, we do not have children. As I said, I have my own career, my own income.”_

_“How’s your sex life? I mean, if your husband’s so busy…”_

_“I would prefer not to answer this question. I don’t see how it’s relevant.”_

_“Have you ever cheated on your husband?”_

_“Again, I do not see how this is relevant, but no, I have not.”_

_“Has he cheated on you?”_

_“Not to my knowledge.”_

Shaking his head, Raymond pulled into the parking lot. He could not allow himself to become emotional over this. He felt for Cozner, and this threatened to cloud his judgment. They did not have proof of his innocence, not yet anyway. Peralta needed to find and question Weigand, who was the key to this entire case. If he stood by his testimony, what could they do?

This visit to Cozner was merely a formality. The professor could not harm Murphy, he’d pled innocent from the beginning – not that it had done him any good.

*

“Your prison sources, am I correct in my assumption that neither of them would be willing to state anything like this in a court of law?”

“They’d be nuts to. Murphy has guys in prison. And if I learned one thing there – apart from how to make a skin suit, _don’t ask_ – it’s that everybody hates a snitch.”

*

As Raymond passed the plethora of security checks, he felt the weight of the walls around him. When Peralta had been here, he had not visited. He and Jeffords had made sure to go to the women’s prison regularly while Boyle and Santiago had come here to see Peralta. Of course, the women’s correctional facility had been just as dismal as this place and seeing Diaz there had been awful, but now he could not help but picture Jake in this hellscape as well.

He took his seat behind a thick plate of grimy plexiglass and waited. Thirty-three seconds later, a correctional officer nodded at him and one of the felons shuffling through the iron-barred gate on the other side of the glass detached from the group.

Raymond watched Cozner’s approach. He looked different from the man in the mugshot. A ginger beard had filled in his gaunt face; there were shadows under his eyes, the yellowish remnants of a fading bruise coloring the otherwise bloodless skin above his right cheekbone.

Cozner peered at him with unconcealed suspicion as he slowly sank into his chair. Raymond picked up his receiver first. He sat there, holding it to his ear while Cozner studied him, eyes sharp but haunted. Finally, the professor reached for his phone.

“Do I know you?” he asked, forgoing any civilized greeting, his voice rougher and colder than it had been in the recording.

“No. My name is Raymond Holt. I am a captain of the New York Police Department. I would like to speak with you about your case.”

Cozner raised an eyebrow. “I’m assuming you have read my file. Why bother coming here? Everything is in there. The entire tragedy in three acts: the arrest, the trial, the sentence.”

“It is fiction then?” Raymond asked, searching the other man’s eyes.

“What do you think?” inquired Cozner, eyebrow still curled.

What did he think, indeed? Raymond had gone over the evidence multiple times. He was no Dillman, but he was no slouch either. There were gaping holes in the prosecutor’s theory. Cozner and Mortimer were both slender, bookish types. Cozner was two inches taller than the victim, but he was also more than twenty years older than his student. A physical fight between them should have lasted several minutes at least. It would have caused a commotion. Yet nobody heard anything? Unlikely.

And the gloves? Cotton gloves? Cozner was a highly intelligent man, yet he’d simply tossed them into a random trashcan on campus after the deed was done? Why not burn them?

Which left Dr. Mitchell Weigand, the witness. Who was nowhere to be found. He had continued to teach at Columbia for two semesters after the trial, then he seemed to have disappeared. He was the missing link.

“I think you’re innocent,” Raymond said, watching Cozner closely for his reaction.

There was no gratitude, no relief. If anything, Cozner’s face hardened. “It was a trick question, Captain,” he said. “Nobody is truly innocent. Die Schuld ist immer zweifellos.”

This air of clinical detachment, the casual Kafka quote, the impenetrable blue eyes, all of this would have made him loathsome to any jury Raymond had ever encountered. Raymond, however, was intrigued.

Despite the noise around them, the woman weeping in the booth next to Raymond, the chatter, the deafening buzz whenever the gate was opened, the correctional officers barking orders, he lowered his voice to ask the question he had come to ask. “Did you kill Alexander Mortimer?”

“No, I did not,” the professor replied, his gaze like his voice unwavering, “but I am here. I was found guilty, so it hardly seems to matter anymore.”

“It does matter, Professor Cozner.”

There was a shift in Cozner’s expression, a minute softening, a flicker of life in his eyes. It must have been years, Raymond thought, since anyone had addressed this man using his proper name and title. It had had an effect, and Raymond felt its echo ripple through him, warm and tender.

“Inmates! Time!” One of the correctional officers yelled, banging his baton against the wall. “Get back to your cells!”

Raymond remained where he was. He watched Cozner’s slow, deliberate exit.

There was a moment, right before he reached the gate, wherein Cozner turned, briefly, casting one last look over his shoulder. Raymond caught it and when he drew in a breath, the air no longer smelled stale and the concrete walls no longer weighed on his chest.

He rose from his chair, filled with purpose.

He had work to do.


	5. Chapter 5

Jake was about to do his cool exit and go back to Shaw’s for some definitely non-depressed drinking, when his father held him back.

“Look, kiddo,” he said, eyebrows furrowed as if he was figuring out some great mystery, “your mom begged me to never tell you, but you’re a grown man now and I think we should be honest with each other.”

Jake stiffened. What was this now? Another ploy to get something out of him, or just one of his dad’s general attempts to shirk responsibility?

“The truth is, I always found it kind of difficult to bond with you because you’re…”

Great, Jake thought, so it was the latter, big surprise.

“Well,” his father sighed, “you’re not my biological son.”

Okay, Jake blinked, too stunned to even have a reaction. “What?” he asked, staring at his dad’s dumb apologetic face. “What are you talking about?”

Roger inhaled deeply as if he was about to do something big like land a plane on a river – which he could never do by the way. “What I’m saying is, it’s not anyone’s fault, Jake.”

Meaning it wasn’t _Roger’s_ fault, specifically.

“Your mom and I were pretty young when we got married and we started having problems early on.”

Roger reached out to put a fatherly hand on his shoulder, but despite the shock, Jake still had enough command over his body to dodge the slimy gesture.

“Yeah, because you were cheating on her,” he said, remembering his mom trying to get through reading him a bedtime story without bursting into tears.

“Fair, I deserved that,” Roger said evenly. “Maybe we should talk about this inside.”

“No, I’m good here.”

He sighed again. “Anyway, things were bad and she started getting it in her head that what we needed was a baby, to be a real family, you know. We tried, but it didn’t work. We couldn’t get pregnant, no matter what we did. I mean, we really went for it. Through the whole Kamasutra and back again.”

“Okay, I really don’t need the details on that,” Jake groaned.

“Oh, don’t be such a prude. Anyway, we went to a doctor. They said it was me – I guess my swimmers are more like drowners.” Roger chuckled. “Probably for the better.”

 _Yeah,_ _because you’re a crappy dad,_ Jake thought bitterly. He shoved his hands into his pockets, balling them into fists. _But I guess you’re not my crappy dad anymore?_

“Your mom was so devastated; she wanted a baby so bad, that I said, let’s try other options, I don’t care if it has my genes. I mean babies all look the same anyway and I really wanted her to be happy. I couldn’t stand to see her so depressed.”

“Yeah well, not cheating on her might have helped.”

Roger shrugged without acknowledging the burn. “Anyway, we went to this clinic. Long story short, your mom picked a sperm donor out of a catalogue and had invitro. It was pretty expensive, but I wanted to give her that. Nine months later, she had you.”

“Wow,” Jake said, voice toneless. Really, it was impressive how, at the end there, this man had still tried to make himself sound generous and heroic. Amazing.

Roger took a step out into the hallway, toward Jake, expression pleading. “Look, I know this is a shock. It was a shock to me, too. I mean, you were a newborn. According to your birth certificate I’m your father and I’d thought that was all it took to be your dad, but somehow, it just wasn’t.”

“Wow,” Jake repeated, mind blank. The weird thing was, somehow, after everything, this still hurt. How could it still hurt? Hadn’t he secretly wished for this all along, when he was a little kid lying in bed at night? For things to turn out just like this? To learn that Roger Peralta wasn’t his real dad, that his real dad was somewhere out there, probably a super cool action hero and that one day, he would come and find Jake and they’d look at each other and just be father and son and everything would make sense.

Now nothing seemed to make sense.

And really, Jake couldn’t lie to himself, all those nights lying in bed as a kid, all he’d truly wanted was for Roger to come back and for them to be a family again. He tried to swallow the lump in his throat.

“Jake, I know I messed up, but you’re an adult now. I know I wasn’t a great father, but I think I could be a great friend.”

Roger’s words were salt in an open wound.

“Wow. This just keeps getting better and better.”

“Jake—”

Jake shook his head. He was done with this. All he wanted was to get away, away from the guy whose love he had been trying to earn all his life. Now, he realized, he never would have to see him again. But instead of freeing, it just felt choking. Tears were rising in his throat, but he didn’t want to waste them on someone who’d clearly never cared.

“No, I’m not going to be your friend, Dad. You know what, no, I’m not calling you dad, I’m calling you Roger, _Roger_. And you know what else? You don’t have to apologize because this is the best news ever. I am so glad you’re not my father, I can’t even tell you how happy I am right now!” His voice was shaking and he hated it. He hated the tears too. They were filling his eyes now, threatening to spill over. “Like, I’m so happy, I’m crying!” he yelled, as the first drop slid down his cheek. “I’m crying tears of joy right now!”

*

It hadn’t been the cool exit, he’d imagined – the one he’d describe to Charles later – Jake had simply stormed off, crying, a little like a twelve-year old girl, or an adult Boyle.

The next morning, when he’d calmed down, he drove to his mom’s to talk to her.

When he told her what Roger had said, she burst into tears.

“I can’t believe he told you, Jake. That was the one thing—” Her breath hitched, and she pressed a hand over her mouth, trying to collect herself. “I’m so sorry.”

It was true then. There was no denying it. This wasn’t something Roger had made up in the spur of the moment. It was real. Jake took his mom’s hand, his heart aching for her. He hated to see her this sad.

“I’m not mad at you. I mean, you did lie to me, my whole life, and make me believe that total disaster of a human being was my father, whose love I then spent decades desperately trying to attain—” He shook his head and conceded, “Okay, maybe I am a little mad at you, but I kind of understand why you did it.”

“I wanted you, Jake, more than anything. And I never regretted having you; you are the best thing I ever created.” She swallowed thickly, trying to gulp down her grief. “I’m sorry I lied to you. I just wanted us to be a family.”

“Mom, we _are_ a family.”

*

It took a while for her to calm down and for Jake to make anything even remotely like sense of the jumble of emotions he was feeling.

But there were so many questions burning on his tongue and after they had eaten breakfast together – though they’d both really just pushed their eggs around on their plates – the first one slipped out. “So, what was he like?”

His mom paused, bottle of orange soda poised to refill his glass. “Who?” The confusion on her face looked genuine despite how obvious the answer had to be.

“You know…,” he said, feeling a little guilty although he couldn’t have said why, “My bio dad.”

His mother heaved a sigh and poured him some soda. “Jake, I don’t know. I never met him.”

“But you had some info, right? Roger mentioned a catalogue.”

She shrugged. “There was a photo and some general information, not much.”

Okay, Jake thought, but then she did know something. “What did he look like?”

“He was young. Very young.”

“Okay, weird emphasis on the age thing.”

“They said younger was better, better chances of conceiving, of the baby being healthy. I wanted the best for you.”

“Okay, so?”

“I don’t know. He was the youngest guy they had. He was cute, I guess.”

“Mom, come on, you’ve got to be able to tell me more than that.”

She gave him an apologetic look as she started clearing away the plates. “Maybe you shouldn’t fixate so much on him. He was just a sperm donor, Jake. He’s not your dad. For all his faults, Roger did try to be your father.”

“Before he ran off, you mean?”

The pain flashing across her face instantly made him regret the retort. He softened his tone and got up to help her. “Please, Mom, come on, anything?”

“Fine. He was tall – six feet – which I liked.”

Jake frowned, following her into the kitchen. “Well, I’m not that tall.”

“You’re a lot taller than your grandparents.”

“True. So, I’m tall like my dad.” It felt so good to say it, Jake couldn’t help but grin.

“And he had blue eyes.”

“Okay, I don’t, but that’s fine.”

“His hair was ginger.”

Jake frowned, putting his plate into the dishwasher. “Didn’t see that coming.”

“And the description said he’d skipped two grades in school.”

“Okay, I mean, I skipped some school.” He smiled sheepishly. “Mostly just individual days though.”

“That’s really all I know about him. Jake, the whole thing was anonymous. I signed a document that said I would never try to identify or contact this man.” From the way she looked at him, he knew she was onto him. She was his mom, so she always was.

Jake huffed a laugh. It was awkward and kind of stuck in his throat. “I know that. Sure, sure, sure, no contact, okay. Makes sense.”

*

“I’m going to find him and then I’m going to contact him,” he announced to Charles the next day after breaking the news.

“What?” For someone who was supposed to cheerlead, Boyle was making a weirdly shocked face. “Jake, I mean, I know Roger was a huge disappointment to us—”

“Us?” Jake interjected, only to be ignored.

“—but I think if you get your hopes up about this sperm donor, you’re setting yourself up for possibly even greater hurt.”

“Pff, no.” Okay, that was maybe a little too defensive. Jake sighed, trying to put the thoughts that had been circling in his head ever since his conversation with Roger into words. “I just want to see what he’s like. He could be anyone. He could be an FBI agent! He could be famous! He could be Bruce Willis!”

If anything, Charles looked even less impressed. “I thought your mom said he was ginger?”

“Not important, look, Charles, I’m sorry, but you don’t really get it. You always had a dad; I never really did. This might be my only chance to connect with my father, for real this time. I mean, sure, he didn’t really sign up to be my dad, it’s not like I don’t get that, but maybe he would like to get to know me now. Maybe he’s been wondering what became of his sperm.”

When Charles grimaced – _Charles!_ – Jake reconsidered his phrasing. “Okay, maybe I shouldn’t have put it like that, but still!”

*

The shocking thing was that it wasn’t even difficult. Jake had sworn to himself that he would not use his job to find his father, only his natural investigative genius, and with that it turned out the whole thing was a matter of two afternoons.

He used his spare key to his mom’s house and searched the boxes in attic where she kept all her old paperwork. At the bottom of box three, underneath his second grade report card and old collection of baseball cards, Jake found a manila envelope containing a contract from New Way clinic. In the contract the donor was identified by the code C-4921E. A quick internet search revealed that the clinic still existed. Jake called them for an appointment, claiming he was interested in becoming a sperm donor, then, using his super detective skills, pretended he had to use the bathroom and snuck into the archives, where – lucky! –the password for the computer turned out to be the same as the username.

He copied the C-4921E file onto a USB stick and slipped out before anyone noticed.

*

At home, Jake sat down in front of his laptop, heart pounding. Was he really going to do this? Wait, why was he even hesitating, of course he was!

Pushing his doubts away, Jake opened the file on his USB stick.

His eyes widened when he read the name: Kevin Costner?!

 _Holy shit,_ he thought, _my dad is a movie star! I knew it!_

Then, he read again and frowned. Kevin _Cozner_? What the hell? Okay, so not a movie star, just a guy with a misleading name. Whatever.

Kevin Cozner’s file consisted only of his general information: date of birth, height, weight, blood type – same as Jake’s!, at least Jake was 70% sure it was – address, phone number and a picture showing a very young man – Jake did the math, twice, and came to the conclusion that his father had just turned eighteen at the time of his sperm donation – with reddish brown hair, in a short, non-descript haircut, pale blue eyes and even paler skin, a few freckles.

They looked nothing alike which was weirdly disappointing to Jake. All this time, he’d thought that the moment he saw his biological father’s face, there would be a spark of recognition, some deeper understanding of who he was, but now that he was looking at Kevin Cozner, he felt nothing even remotely like that. But then, the Kevin Cozner in the picture was a boy, a nerdy kid straight out of high school.

By now, his father would be fifty. The address and phone number he had given were probably useless now, but that was what the internet was for. Jake skimmed the short profile text – it said that Kevin had a clean bill of health, had graduated at the top of his high school class, spoke four languages and was a student at a prestigious university.

 _At the time,_ he thought, _let’s see what you’re up to now._

Jake closed the file and opened his browser. He typed Kevin Cozner into google, took a deep breath and hit enter.

*

So, this was a bad idea, probably. Jake was standing in a hallway in Columbia University’s classics department, staring at a flyer pinned to a notice board. It was advertising affordable lessons in something called Middle High German. The bottom of the flyer had been cut into a fringe of tear-off strips of paper with an email address on it: dickerstricher@yahoo.com.

Or maybe this was the greatest idea ever. Behind Jake was the door to the office of Professor Kevin Cozner, whose office hours would start at 9 a.m. It was currently 8:55 and Jake was nervous. He had five minutes to come up with something to say because obviously he hadn’t prepared – if he were Amy Santiago he would have written a speech and practiced it in front of a mirror for hours. But he was Jake Peralta – wait, was he Jake Cozner now? Jake Peralta-Cozner? – so he was going to do what he did best and just wing it.

“Ugh, this again,” a man said behind him. “I’m sorry, you did not put these up, did you?”

Jake spun around and found himself looking at Kevin Cozner, his father, in the flesh. He tried not to gasp, almost succeeded and awkwardly brushed a hand through his hair.

“Uuuuh…”

Meanwhile, Kevin, shaking his head, snatched the flyer off the notice board. He peered at Jake through narrowed eyes. “You’re not one of my students.”

“No, I’m not.” Jake was flustered. Seeing Kevin Cozner – his real father! – in person was way more weird and exciting than finding his picture on the department website had been.

In person, Kevin was tall and slender, his nose almost beak-like – something which Jake got too, from a certain angle – it made him look a bit like a disgruntled bird as he stared at Jake, flyer still in hand.

“My name is Jake Peralta,” Jake said, squaring his shoulders even as he felt his smile waver, “and I’m your son.” There, he’d said it.

Kevin continued to stare, only his left eyebrow twitched up. “Excuse me?” he said.

“I’m your son!” Jake repeated, then, when Kevin’s expression remained blank, clarified, “You donated sperm thirty-two years ago and I’m that sperm!”

“What?” Kevin asked, frown deepening.

“Okay, that didn’t come out right, maybe—”

“Please come into my office.” With that, he walked briskly over to his door, unlocked it and gestured for Jake to step inside.

His heart in his throat, Jake stepped into the office.

There was a desk and no chair for him to sit in, so he stood awkwardly in front of the desk, fidgeting. Maybe he should have prepared that speech after all.

Kevin followed him and closed the door. “Now,” he said, fixing Jake with a cold glare, “what exactly is it you want from me?”

“I just wanted to meet you. I thought, maybe, you’d be curious what happened with your…uh.” Jake trailed off, smiling sheepishly.

“Yes, there is no need to—” Kevin sighed. He dragged a hand across his face and shook his head once more. “Mister… I’m sorry, what was your name again?”

When he’d imagined how his first meeting with his father would go, he’d never pictured a moment in which his dad didn’t remember his name. Jake swallowed, his mouth suddenly dry. Charles had been right; this was a mistake.

“Jake. Jake Peralta.”

“Mister Peralta. How shall I put this. You were mistaken. When I signed my contract with the clinic, I was assured that there would not be any future interaction between me and the recipient or product of… the procedure.”

 _Product of the procedure,_ Jake thought, his stomach plummeting.

“In short, by appearing in my workplace, you are breaching said contract; you are invading my privacy and if you don’t cease and desist, I will be forced to take legal steps against you.”

Jake felt as though he'd been punched in the gut.

Undeterred, Kevin continued in the same cool, even voice. “You may be my biological offspring – although, looking at you, I find even that doubtful, perhaps there has been an error of some sort – but that does not make me your parent. We do not have a relationship. I am sure you have done your research on me, so you know that I was eighteen years old when I took part in this transaction. I have since come to regret my ill-advised decision.”

“Wow,” Jake said, unable to really even unpack all of this. It was just too much. All he knew was that his chest felt as though someone had hollowed it out with a spoon. Tears were rising in his throat, but he swallowed them down.

“Just so you know,” he mumbled, “if I’d had a choice, I wouldn’t have picked you to be my father either, because you suck. And also, way cooler people than you have filed restraining orders against me, so…”

Kevin simply looked at him, eyes hard and unreadable. “Please leave,” he said.

*

“So, the only thing I got out of this was maybe a warning that I’m going to go bald.”

“Oh, Jake, no!” Charles exclaimed. “You can’t lose your glorious hair!”

*

Peralta was sitting by himself at a table in the corner of Shaw’s bar, his head hanging, one hand loosely wrapped around his drink. Of course, Raymond had heard all about the detective’s journey from learning that Roger Peralta was not his biological father to the decision to find the man who was. Raymond, at the time somewhat consumed with his own unpleasant affairs, namely his ongoing divorce from his now officially ex-husband Frederick had not involved himself in the discussions regarding Peralta’s private life.

Now, however, seeing the young man in this state of depression and his own thoughts circling the dark abyss of a future alone, he felt compelled to approach his detective.

“Peralta,” he said, signaling the bartender for two more of what Jake was having, “May I?”

“Sure, Captain.”

Raymond pulled up a chair and sat down. Jake looked up at him, his expression shifting into a puzzled frown.

“How are things with Frederick? Going from your face, I’d say… he broke down crying and begged you to take him back? Or he murdered your entire family?”

“Settled,” Raymond said. He was unwilling to go into detail about his long and exhausting battle with Frederick. They had now agreed that his ex-husband would keep the house – this way he would not have to move any of his ugly décor – so it probably was for the best. “How did your endeavor to connect with your procreator go?”

“Great. I now know that he’s a huge jerk, which maybe means that I’m going to grow into a jerk too, so that’s something to look forward to.”

“Ah. Well, perhaps time makes huge jerks of us all.” Raymond had certainly not thought Frederick a huge jerk when they married, and yet, here they were.

“I just wanted him to like me, but instead he called me the product of a transaction he regrets. Which I guess means, to him I’m like that second massage chair I got because it was on sale that then ended up catching fire and destroying my turn table.”

“Or perhaps a _third_ wooden duck that you give to your husband to make up for the mysterious disappearances of numbers one and two, only to have him criticize the angle of its tail,” Raymond offered.

“Yeah, that. That’s me,” Jake said, pausing to down his drink in one gulp, “A duck with a badly angled tail. Wow, your marriage was weird.”

“Hm.” There had been good days, of course, in the beginning, but the longer they lasted, the more those days felt like the calm before the next storm, and there had always been a next storm. Now, however, his life would be still, devoid of even a fresh breeze.

*

Two days later, Raymond walked into the precinct only to happen upon his ex-husband seemingly deep in conversation with a man he did not recognize. He felt himself stiffen at the unexpected and unwelcome sight and silently cursed the part of his brain that swiftly noted the stranger’s handsomeness and compared it to his own. Frederick already had a new partner, the loathsome Dave, who had resurfaced from whatever hole he had crawled into in the mid-eighties. Therefore, he, Frederick, had no business flirting with a man – and he was flirting, Raymond could tell by the way his ex-husband’s body was angled towards the stranger – and doing it in Raymond’s precinct of all places was a slap in the face.

Raymond stalked over, his mind working on an opening line, something devastating, such as pointing out the gentle slope of Frederick’s belly pushing against his belt, but then Frederick might retaliate with a similar remark about the changes in Raymond’s physique. Perhaps it might be better to point out the smudge on his pantleg or to inquire whether he still did not see the appeal of the music of Arnold Schönberg.

Before he had time to issue his attack, however, Frederick turned his head, saw him, and said, “Ah, there is he now. Raymond, this gentleman would like to know how to acquire a visitor badge.” As he spoke, he put his hand lightly on the other man’s bicep. Raymond felt compelled to raise a judgmental eyebrow.

“Good Morning, Captain, my name is Kevin Cozner.” The stranger, Kevin Cozner, took a subtle step away from Frederick and reached out, offering his hand. Raymond grasped it. As they shook, Raymond glanced over at his ex-husband. “Raymond Holt, nice to meet you,” he said absent-mindedly.

“What brings you here?” he asked Frederick the moment Cozner released his hand.

“I remembered that you still had the second spare key to the house. I’d like you to return it at some point, so I stopped by on my way to the hospital to remind you.”

“I’m a doctor,” Frederick added, smiling at Kevin.

“Ah,” Raymond said, suppressing the urge to roll his eyes. “I will drop it in the mailbox the next time I drive by.”

“Thank you.” Frederick nodded at Cozner. “I really have to run now. Perhaps we’ll see each other at that Haydn concert in two weeks?”

“Perhaps,” Cozner said, his tone so neutral even Raymond could not have said whether he was interested or not. Which in and of itself was… intriguing.

After Frederick had gone, Raymond turned his full attention to the other man.

Kevin Cozner was looking at him, his face the rare kind of polite blankness Raymond found incredibly pleasing. He almost wanted to reach out again for a second handshake.

“I’m afraid you will have to tell me whom you would like to visit. The person in question will have to sign for you.”

“Oh,” Cozner said, his brow furrowing, “I’m not sure he will agree to that. I’m sorry. This was a bad idea.”

He made to leave, but Raymond swiftly blocked his path.

“Wait,” he said, _very_ intrigued now, “Which one of my officers were you planning to see?”

“Detective Jacob Peralta.”

This was a surprise.

“That is a surprise,” Raymond said. “What is the nature of your relationship to Jake Peralta?”

Cozner sighed. “He came to see me at my office a few days ago. I deeply regret the way I spoke to him. I wanted to apologize for my behavior.”

Raymond frowned, studying the man in front of him. Tall, slender, meticulously dressed in an expensive dark coat and grey slacks. Blue eyes, fair hair. It couldn’t be, could it?

“Knowing Peralta, he won’t be here for a couple of minutes,” he announced, “he can do the required paperwork for you when he arrives. If you want to wait, that is.”

Raymond watched Cozner for his reaction. There barely was any. It was impossible to say what complicated deliberations were happening behind his ice-blue eyes. Raymond felt as though he was trying to glimpse the bottom of the ocean from its surface. Fascinating.

Finally, Cozner nodded once. “I will wait,” he said.

Surprised by the spark of relief he felt, Raymond, suddenly unable to help himself, touched the other man’s shoulder.

“Good,” he said.


End file.
